But not like this. He was supposed to be his usual crude self. She wanted hot, meaningless anger sex. Something she could walk away from without so much as a bruise on her emotions.

This quiet, contemplative Will set her on edge. She didn’t know how to speak with him in any language other than “feud.”

Why didn’t he call her bony or snobby or vapid and set her temper off so that she could storm out? Storming out was immature, but smart. Practical. Necessary. Storming out was very Brynn.

And that was the problem. She was sick of herself. She wanted a break from being the organized, uptight, no-sex-before-the-fifth-date goody-goody.

Who better to give her a night’s vacation from perfect than a man who spent more on condoms in a year than he did on food?

Brynn shook her head to try and clear it. She was making herself dizzy with all of this waffling. Either she wanted to jump his crass bones, or she didn’t. Make up your mind.

And then the most disturbing thought of all hit her. What if he didn’t want her?

She’d taken for granted that he was a womanizer, but for all her complaining about him going through women faster than a toddler went through Cheerios, he’d never made a move on her. Not in high school, when they’d run in the same social circles. Not in college, when he’d practically lived at her house over Christmas break. And certainly not in their adult life, when their once-harmless bickering had turned into very real dislike.

Not until that rainy night in his car, and she still wasn’t sure that the kiss hadn’t been more about punishing her than passion.

The thought of being rejected by Will was almost enough to bring back the practical, self-preserving Brynn. And yet still she didn’t move.

Just do it. You have the rest of your life to be boring.

Brynn set aside her untouched water glass and stood.

Keeping her eyes locked on his moody blue gaze, she slowly made her way around his kitchen island. She continued her slow approach until there were only inches between them. Still he didn’t move or speak.

Brynn let her eyes move over him the way she’d seen him check out women a thousand times before. He was wearing a tight black T-shirt, jeans, and a scowl. He looked like every woman’s bad-boy fantasy. Perfect.

Licking her lips nervously, she pulled the glass from his hand and set it on the counter. She felt a little thrill of gratification when something dark and dangerous flashed through his normally bored eyes.

She hesitantly ran her manicured fingernails lightly over his rib cage, closing her eyes in ecstatic panic when she heard him suck in a sharp breath.

Rough fingers clamped around her wrist. “Brynn, wait—”

No! Desperate to stop him from thinking this through, she rose to her toes and kissed him. It was a soft kiss, just the merest brush of her lips against his. But still, she shuddered. He tasted warm and smoky and strangely addicting.

She kissed him again, lingering this time. His lips moved just slightly beneath hers. Not quite returning the kiss, but not pulling back either.

He’s letting me decide, she realized. Whatever she was feeling was nothing like the manic passion of the car, and that alarmed her. This kiss was softer. Nicer.

And every instinct was screaming that “soft” with William Thatcher was dangerous. “Soft” wasn’t what she was here for. She wanted hot, animalistic sex on the floor of his bachelor pad, not soft, heady kisses in his homey kitchen.

Determined to banish all traces of tenderness, Brynn wound her arms around his neck and pulled his head down to her. Her lips were firmer this time, and she nipped at his bottom lip. He stiffened, and for a fraction of a second she had the horrible sensation that he was going to pull pack. Push her away.

He doesn’t want me, she realized in horror.

Then Will moved so quickly that she nearly lost her balance. Sliding one arm around her back, he hoisted her onto the kitchen counter, even as his other hand slid around the back of her head.

She closed her eyes and waited for the crush of his lips, but his fingers clenched in her hair and held her still. His eyes had gone so dark they were almost black, and he stared into hers with an unreadable expression.

“You’ll hate me if we do this,” he said gruffly.

“I already hate you.”

“Then why are you here?”

She almost laughed at that. She had her legs around his waist and he had to ask? “Isn’t that kind of obvious?”

“Just sex?”

“Yes. And just this one time. And, Will…if you tell anyone about this, I will kill you.”

His head tilted back slightly, and something unidentifiable flashed across his face before he resumed his usual bored expression.

“Well, if it’s one-time sex you want, you’ve come to the right place,” he said with an evil little grin.

Then his mouth closed over hers, and she resigned herself to the inevitable.

She was going to become one of William Thatcher’s women.

* * *

Will knew Brynn would be back around. Knew it was only a matter of time before she ended up on his front door looking to scratch an itch she couldn’t even identify.

But he sure as hell didn’t expect this Brynn.

“Sweetie, what the hell happened to you?”

Although he was pretty sure he already knew, and he wanted to kill that sallow-faced James for doing it to her. Not that Will hadn’t seen it coming.

Not that he hadn’t wanted it.

But it hurt all the same to see it.

The long yellow hair he’d so often dreamed about sinking his fingers into had been replaced by a dark brown hack job, and instead of her usual minimal makeup, her blue eyes were dark and smoky and…

Oh, who was he kidding. This version of Brynn was hot. A hot mess, perhaps, but still hot.

But this wasn’t his Brynn. This was the wounded, messed-up, lost version.

He’d wanted her to come to him, just not like this. But he’d take what he could get.

“Bad day?” he asked easily, leaning an arm against the doorjamb and locking his eyes with hers. He didn’t give her an extended once-over. It was what she wanted, but not what she needed.

Instead he kept his face blank. This was her game now. He just needed to know the rules.

“Can I come in?”

Her shoulders were thrown back in a show of confidence and she had that subtly defiant look on her face that he knew all too well, but her eyes told another story.

Her eyes were terrified. Vulnerable.

He let her in.

“What’s with the outfit?” he asked, stepping aside so she could enter. “Was it bordello-chic day at the office?”

“I didn’t go into the office,” she said, heading to the kitchen like she owned the place. “Well, I mean, I did. But not to work.”

He raised his eyebrows behind her back. Brynn not working on a random Thursday. That was new.

“I didn’t go to work all week, actually,” she added.

Shit.

“Oh yeah?” he asked, going to the fridge and pulling out a bottle of wine. It was one of her favorites, but he didn’t let her see the label. He was worried this version of Brynn would start asking questions that the real Brynn wasn’t ready to hear the answers to. Like why he kept her favorite wine stocked. Always. Just in case.

She nodded in thanks as he slid a glass across the counter, then picked up it up and wandered toward the living area.

“The furniture looks good.”

“Even with the ‘gaudy’ couch?” he asked, pouring a glass for himself.

She shrugged and flung herself on the black leather couch as though she hadn’t launched a one-woman crusade against the “pinnacle of trashiness” just a week earlier.

He wanted to sit next to her. To have her swing her legs over his knees, kick off the scary shoes she was wearing, and talk about whatever had her dressing up like a harlot wannabe.

Wanted to tell her that she didn’t have to try so hard. She didn’t have to try to be perfect, or in this case, try to be imperfect. That with him, she could just be.

Still, Will had to admit, while the clothing was completely out of character, she pulled it off well. He was used to seeing her in cardigans and silk and perfectly tailored slacks, so this new look was a shock to the system. The dark jeans fit her like a second skin, cutting off at trim ankles to reveal high-heeled black patent leather stilettos that could kill a man. And the shirt, if you could even call it that, was fitted, red, and tiny. It wasn’t low-cut…he didn’t think Brynn Dalton was ready for that, but it was one of those strapless numbers that stayed up only because it was tight as hell.